Exit Strategy. Shirlee McCoy
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he didn’t know, that he hadn’t seen the broken ends of the rope, the trail of blood.
The floor creaked, boots tapping against linoleum.
Fabric rustled, and she felt him. Right there. Inches away. John? He’d been one of Joshua’s best friends. They’d grown up together. But friendship didn’t mean much in Amos Way. All that mattered was the group cause, the combined beliefs, the value of community and the blind faith in Elijah Clayton. Elijah had named her the enemy. He’d set her up, accused her of theft, beaten her, tossed her in the trailer and left her to rot. No one in Amos Way would question that. No one would come to her aid.
She swallowed down bile, refusing to give in to panic.
Someone touched her shoulder, and she flinched.
“You’ve gotten yourself into a dangerous situation,” a man said. She didn’t know the voice. Not surprising. Most of the men on Elijah’s security team were outsiders, hired hands who got paid well to protect Amos Way.
She didn’t respond. Didn’t know what she was expected to say.
“So,” he continued, reaching for her hands, his fingers untangling the loose ends of the rope. “We’re going to play this my way. Then maybe we can both get out of here alive. Okay?”
Surprised, she shifted, rolling onto her back, looking straight into a stranger’s face. Moonlight filtered in through the open door, splashing across dark jeans and dusty boots, white dress shirt, gun holster. He looked like every other security officer she’d seen in the compound, his dark hair cropped close, his face hard.
“Who are you?” she asked, because he hadn’t ignored her like every other security officer had.
“Someone who is here to help, but it’s going to take me a little time to get you out of here.” He pulled something from his gun belt, and her blood ran cold, his words flying away before they could register. Handcuffs. If he got those on her, she’d never escape. It was now or not at all. Fight and run or stay and die.
She lunged up, slamming her body into his with so much force they both toppled over. Feet still tied, she had no choice but to crawl over him, scramble for the door, for that cold crisp fall night.
He grabbed her ankle, dragged her back.
He was too strong or she was too weak. Too many days without food. Too much time trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She fought anyway, scratching and clawing and bucking against his weight. He pinned her easily, hard body pressing hers into the ground, his hands surprisingly gentle on her forearms.
“Stop!” he commanded.
She didn’t, because she could still feel the cold air, the chance of escape just a few feet away.
He pressed his forearm to her throat without even enough pressure to make her flinch.
“Stop,” he said again, his voice calm. “John is watching. You want him to come give me a hand?”
She froze, her body shaking with fear and adrenaline.
“Good. Now, how about we try this again?”
He grabbed both her wrists, snapped the handcuff onto one. She bucked up, arm flailing as she tried to avoid the other cuff. He snapped it on easily, and she knew she was done. That any hope that she’d had of getting out of the compound alive was gone.
He lifted her wrists, flashing his light on the deep cut that still seeped blood.
“You’re a mess,” he murmured, letting her arms drop onto her stomach, reaching across her body and using pliers to yank the nail from the wall. “But there’s not a whole lot I can do about it yet.”
The nail dropped onto the floor, and he reached over, his body covering hers for a split second, something dropping onto her knuckles, falling onto her stomach.
Surprised, she grabbed it, felt the cool metal of a key.
Her heart jumped, and she met his eyes.
He didn’t give any indication that he knew what she held, just dropped the nail into his pocket and stood. “Essex sent me. He’s been worried. Now, stop trying so hard, Lark. You’re just making things harder on both of us.”
He walked outside, closed the door, sealing her in with the putrid air, the pulsing darkness, the cold metal key pressing against her palm and just the tiniest glimmer of hope that she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.
* * *
So much for an easy mission.
Cyrus Mitchell pulled the bloody nail from his pocket and frowned. As far as he could tell, it was the only thing in the trailer that had a sharp edge on it. Lark must have been working at the ropes for hours, sawing through the hemp until she’d finally freed herself.
She had to have noticed the security camera, had to have known that she was being watched twenty-four hours a day. Maybe she’d been desperate enough not to care. Or sick enough not to be thinking clearly. Whatever the case, she’d been determined, and she’d succeeded.
He’d taken that away from her, and it didn’t feel good.
The key was his way of apologizing. Essex’s name the information she needed to keep her hope alive. It wouldn’t get her out of the trailer, but maybe it would keep her from giving up.
Hope, he’d learned a long time ago, was a key factor in survival. Without it, there wasn’t a whole lot of reason to keep going.
He locked the trailer, tucked the key into his pocket and headed back across the compound. Security cameras lined the fence, pointing in and out of Amos Way, tracking the movements of everyone who came or went. For a peaceful, God-loving community, they didn’t seem all that trusting of their fellow man.
But, then, Cyrus hadn’t expected them to be. On the surface, Amos Way was exactly what it claimed to be—a religious commune designed to give its members a home away from worldly corruption and materialistic excess. Underneath, they were something else. Something a lot darker and a lot more dangerous. Cyrus hadn’t needed to enter the compound to know it. He’d just had to watch the comings and goings of the armed security force. He wasn’t sure what the team was transporting in and out, but he didn’t think it was truckloads of Bibles.
He jogged the last hundred yards to security headquarters. The squadron was housed in a ranch-style building that looked over the fifty-acre compound. Cyrus had spent the past six nights bunking with fifteen loudmouthed, brash kids who had more muscle than brains. John McDermott ran the place like a military unit, and he’d assured Cyrus that he’d be moved into “officer” housing once he made it through his probationary period.
Cyrus had no intention of being in Amos Way long enough for that to happen. In and out. That’s what he’d promised his boss Chance Miller. Head of HEART, Chance hadn’t been all that eager to let Cyrus enter Amos Way. Cyrus wasn’t all that happy about it either. HEART specialized in rescuing hostages from the most difficult of situations. The team’s mission was to reunite families, to bring closure to those waiting for the missing. Sometimes, though, they took cases like this—a missing person who might or might not be at risk.
Cyrus preferred overseas assignments. Work Stateside tended to get him into trouble. He owed Essex Randolph, though. The guy had saved his hide in Iraq, and Cyrus didn’t forget things like that. Not ever. Essex had been worried about Lark. A teacher at the school where he worked, she hadn’t shown up for the first day of school or for any day after. She’d emailed a resignation to the school board, contacted the principal to let him know she wouldn’t be returning. Cyrus had read the emails. They seemed on the up and up. Essex wasn’t convinced, though. Lark loved her job, and she hated Amos Way. There was no way she’d ever willingly stay there.
That had been Essex’s opinion, but it wasn’t enough for the police to open a case. It was enough for Cyrus. He’d convinced Chance to let him check things out. He’d assured him that the case would be simple. It was turning out to be anything but that. Too bad